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Thank You God that she’s singing again .

He moved slowly up the path, listening to the stops and starts of the stilted music, like she might be crafting a song, or in tears.

He stopped on the deck, the open sliding doors allowing the sound to fill his ears.

Then he heard Sarah, talking to herself, as she scribbled something on a piece of paper.

He entered, not wanting to disturb her, knowing from experience that if she knew he was here she’d clam up.

He lowered onto the walnut dining chair, watching his wife look more animated than she had in days. Eventually she nodded as if satisfied, leaned back then began the piece from the beginning.

“I know You love me, I’ve seen Your grace so many times. Your faithfulness surrounds me…”

He stiffened. How could she sing this song at this time? God wasn’t faithful. He’d abandoned them. Again.

“Your love is beautiful. Your love so undeserved. Your love stretches out forever to me. Your love is not contained, I see the evidence each day. Your love means all the world to me.”

As Sarah sang the chorus again Dan felt his throat thicken in protest. Right now God’s love felt far away. He’d seen Sarah’s tears, knew she felt that way too. Didn’t she? Or was this more evidence that she hadn’t wanted the baby as much as Dan had?

He shut down that thought. No, this was a declaration of faith, a faith song, for sure. She wasn’t finding this easy. Those catches in her voice as she struggled to sing said so.

Then the music changed as she sang another section.

He closed his eyes, listening to Sarah’s beautiful voice struggle through the rest of the song, feeling a faint something whisper an invitation to join her in seeking God.

Nope. Couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. He sat still, ignoring those little promptings, waiting until Sarah finally finished and sat, shoulders slumped. Was she praying?

Her stillness seemed almost unworldly. Concern creased his chest, and he carefully got up and slowly made his way over to the piano stool, touching her gently on the shoulder.

She jumped.

He nearly smiled. “Hey, Sar.”

“I didn’t know you were here.”

Good.

She reached up and grabbed his hand, pressing her face into his palm. “You know He does, don’t you?”

His heart tightened.

“Dan, you know that God loves us right now?”

No wonder she’d turned what should be a statement of fact into a question.

He hadn’t been acting like it. How could a good God allow such a bad thing?

How could the Creator God allow the tiniest, most innocent part of creation to die?

How could a God who said He was Love do something so unloving as let their baby die? How could God ignore their prayers?

She stared up at him, green eyes watchful, piercing through his confusion to the truth.

He cleared his throat. “I know He’s supposed to be.”

She pushed up one side of her mouth. “You know that God loves us right now.”

Statement. Truth. Fact. Part of him still did believe.

She gingerly moved around on the seat to hug him, and he leaned over, burying his face in her hair, before her gentle tug on his t-shirt pulled him to the seat. She wrapped her arms around him, and he could feel the old tingly rush at their touch.

She pressed his head into her shoulder, then whispered in his ear, “Dan, I need you to hold me, but I don’t need you to hold me up.

We can be as weak as we need to be right now, as long as we know God loves us.

God does love us. His love is the full stop, the period, the end point, regardless of our circumstances.

But if we don’t know that, if you don’t know that, you’ll keep trying to be Superman, but will come crashing down.

And I don’t want you to fall. I need you, Dan. Please don’t fall.”

Trying to hold back the tears was futile.

He tucked his face into her neck, and clung to her like a life preserver.

She might say she needed him, but right now he felt like he was drowning, and he needed her.

Oh, he needed her. Her words, her touch, her faith, her prayers had reached that part of his spirit that was still alive, touching a chord that now hummed.

He could feel her fragility, emotional and physical, as the shoulder of his t-shirt dampened, and her brokenness encouraged him to finally be real.

With a sudden sob that seemed wrenched from his gut he let the wall fall, as they held each other and wept.

No, he didn’t have to have the answers. He didn’t have to be strong for her. He just needed to be real, to admit he was struggling and needed God’s help. Oh God, help us. Help me to trust You again.

Finally, when it seemed his emotions were wrung dry, he released her, swiping his hands across his face. Man. His wife might be the emotional one, but he’d never cried as much as he had in the past year. Good thing nobody apart from her was here to see him now.

Outside, a sudden breeze sang softly through the trees, as inside, a sweetness borne of shared pain, flowed between them.

He felt closer to her again. The two were one again, thanks in no small part to the reminder that the third strand of their union—God—was here too, reminding them of His presence, and His power to bring healing and restoration.

He drew in a shaky breath. Released it. “I love you, Princess.”

“I love you too.” She squeezed him tighter. “And God loves you even more.”

He hung on, his soul wrestling with her words.

It might be true, but he still struggled with believing it.

Sometimes he wished he had his wife’s certainty.

Maybe that came from a lifetime of putting scriptures into song, that the verses dug deeper into her heart so she knew them on a deeper level than he ever could.

Regardless, he knew he was going to need it for when they resurfaced in the real world.

The topic of returning to the real world was one she broached that night over dinner.

“I think we should return to the city.”

“What? No. It’s too soon.”

She shook her head. “Hiding away as we have has been good, just what I needed, but we can’t hide here forever.”

“But the season is almost done. Me returning now won’t make any difference.”

She winced, like she thought he was blaming her for missing games.

“Sar, no. It’s not your fault. Please don’t think I’m blaming you.”

“The fans will blame me.”

“No, they won’t—”

“They always do.”

“They won’t,” he repeated firmly, “because they won’t know why I wasn’t there.”

“Exactly. It doesn’t matter how it’s described, as soon as the team says you’re away on personal leave they’ll think it’s something to do with me, and—”

“So what if it is? You’re the most important part of my life. You’re more important than hockey.”

“You say that, but they don’t agree.”

“Who cares if they agree?” he said roughly. “This is my life. You, our baby, this is our real life. And if the team agrees that I need personal leave, then it’s for a good reason, and the fans need to respect that.”

She pressed her lips together then nodded. “I know that. It’s just I think explaining a few things might help people understand.”

Uh uh. He was in no way ready to spill their personal lives in that way.

His wife might be on every social media platform known to man, but Dan stayed away.

Bad things happened to people who spent too long on their phones looking to be entertained by other people’s lives they judged better—or worse—than their own. “No. We don’t owe anyone anything.”

“But it could be important. Especially as you’re looking for an extension on your contract.”

“I don’t care about that.”

She arched her eyebrows.

“Okay, I do, a bit. But honestly, the people who need to know, know. Those who are making those decisions know why we’re here and not there. The team is the one who gave me leave.”

“I know.”

“And to be honest, right now I don’t even care if I don’t get an extension. I could retire and I’d be happy.”

“Really?”

The skeptical lift to her brow echoed his heart’s protest. Okay, so maybe that was an exaggeration. He might pretend to be happy, but he’d rather leave on his own terms, rather than feel pushed to do so because of this unexpected tragedy.

“So what would you do if you retired?” she asked, ramming the point home.

He didn’t know. His future felt as nebulous as any hope of a child seemed to be.

He’d completed a year of a business degree, so he could finish that.

But that wouldn’t take too long, and then what?

Coaching? No. Working with the team in some other capacity?

Maybe. But that would mean more time in the city, and he’d half promised Sarah that when he retired, they could leave the city and raise their family in either Muskoka or investigate living in Australia.

And while the idea of living in Sydney appealed—imagine living somewhere with that much sunshine—something about Muskoka kept drawing him.

“All I’m saying is that it might help the fans understand and be supportive if they knew.”

He shook his head. “Nope. I don’t want people talking about us, which is why I don’t want people knowing.”

“But don’t you think us talking about it would help others who have had a similar experience?”

So? he wanted to say, but didn’t. Right now he didn’t care about anyone else.

“Look, Sar, I don’t know how you can even suggest such a thing.

Just in case you haven’t noticed, I’m nowhere near being ready to talk about this.

I’m not over this, and I sure as heck can’t think that anything I have to say would help anyone else right now. ”

He’d be more likely to turn people away from God if they truly knew his thoughts.

“Maybe I’m just taking longer to process this, because I didn’t have a missionary for a dad, and I was never a pastor’s kid—”

She flinched.

Man, he hadn’t meant to sound so harsh. But the honesty, now stirred, kept on gushing out. “But I’m in no way able to give advice on how to move on or move forward or whatever the correct term is. I’ve got nothing, Sar. I honestly can’t even think about it without tearing up.”

He winced. He hadn’t meant that to slip out.

But exposing his vulnerability stirred further honesty.

“I don’t want to tell others about this, because that means talking about it, and I have no words to say.

I’ve got no answers for myself let alone anyone else.

Maybe you’re a better Christian than me, but I can’t just let it go. Not yet.”

She lowered her head.

His chest panged. He was such a crap husband sometimes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound angry.”

Except part of him really was. He was angry at people feeling they had the right to comment on their lives, to pass judgement on Sarah.

How dare people do that? But deeper than that, he was also angry at God for allowing this to happen.

He was even a little bit angry with Sarah for obviously not caring about the miscarriage as much as he did.

Maybe the baby wasn’t a ‘real’ baby in anyone else’s eyes, but he felt the loss.

She pressed her lips together, then drew close. “I’m not a better Christian than you,” she whispered.

Oh, she was. Way better. Still, this crap husband knew the right words to say. “I’m sorry for saying that.”

“I forgive you,” she whispered.

The room drew quiet again, the moment of tension cooling like the remains of their meal.

She propped her head in her hand, weariness etched in her features. “So are you saying you don’t want to return to the city?”

He sighed. “Honestly? What difference will me playing in a game or two make? Not much. The results don’t matter, seeing we’re out of the playoffs now.”

Her forehead pleated. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “It’s not your fault. I would’ve made the same decision a million times over.”

She moved around to his side of the table, and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her face into his jaw. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he said automatically.

He did. And loving this woman meant acknowledging when she was right. Like now. Because she was right. He needed to return, they couldn’t hide in Muskoka forever.

He sighed. Maybe it was time they returned to face the music.